The Angel in Glass

'The sky is beautiful tonight.' Logan decided, letting the cthonian grammer he'd been reading dip, wavering as his scholastic goals fought with a fresher, if still familiar longing that took root amongst his thoughts. The elderly tome sank lower, the academic purpose that kept it relevant waning as the lights of the city, a sea of false stars amid the semi-dark of midnight called to its holder. When at last it came to rest on the smooth glass of the rather modern-looking table at which the young warlock had been working, it was soon joined by the tea he'd had in his offhand, the dark citrus-scented liquid rippling visibly through the transparent cup as it came to rest on the matching saucer.

Pulling his eyes from the spectacle beyond the rather startlingly expansive windows that bordered the patio, Logan reached for a bit of note paper he'd set aside, poking it into his grammar before shutting it. He knew he should probably read another chapter, perhaps two given the sheer volume of information that still escaped him, but he knew just as well that he wouldn't be able to resist the call, not now. 'And a little hands on work can't hurt.' he thought guiltily, the sheer want that the idea evoked bringing up a flush of shame, but it didn't mean he'd stop. It never had. 'At least I got the real work done.' the warlock mused, tugging another sheet of paper from those scattered over the coffee table as he stood up, arching his back to the silken rustle of his wings as he ran his eyes over the neat line of runes he'd copied out.

The apartment he now resided in was, at least by his standards, and those of all but the obscenely wealthy, quite lavish. It had almost been a shock when he'd first seen it, one of those moments where he'd thought 'this is perfect, but I can never afford it.' and had then become a true stunner when he'd learned that based on what the Institute was offering him he actually could. Moving out of the Brakewell's had been a dream of his for somewhere near the last five years, or perhaps if he was being honest, he might have said from the moment he'd first realised how much they feared him, which was rather earlier than that.

The décor of the apartment had that modern steel, glass, and stone theme that tended to emphasize the absences of the space, making the high ceilings and starkly elegant furnishings seem artful and open rather than inhumane. In a way it suited him. The austerity of it made him feel more at home than the plush and warmth of his first home ever had, and perhaps the view was part of that. When he'd seen the nearly wall-to-wall expanse of windows that bordered the porch he'd known it was for him. Though he'd probably never work up the nerve, at least not until he could maintain a stable full spectrum glamour, he had yet to shake the notion of how wonderful it would be to stand out there where he could feel the wind under every pinion.

Regardless of his dreams, if he wanted to keep this particular locale his own, he needed to keep his end of the bargain, and as he finished triple checking the last line of the working he'd been translating all evening, he was at last satisfied that he'd be able to perform the diagnostics he needed. The portal at the institute was an ancient thing, and well set in its ways. He doubted it would go down anytime this century, at least not unless someone was seriously screwing with the field, but preventing that sort of thing, and more importantly knowing when it was coming was the reason the Nephilim saw fit to pay for his independence, and he had no intention of messing with that arrangement. Reaching across the table, the young warlock snatched up a thin leather folio from the satchel resting against its side, and unzipped it before slipping the page of notes into its protective embrace.

Dropping the case beside his rapidly cooling tea, Logan allowed his attention to return to the windows. "All ready for tomorrow." he assured himself quietly, already stepping around the table, his motions accompanied by the dry, silken rustle of his wings as he let them stretch. Stopping only a scant few inches from the chill glass that separated him from the world outside, the warlock let out a gentle sigh, a quiet sort of pleasure as he stretched, raven black feathers nearly brushing the ceiling. Staring out at the city, he crossed his arms, the gesture providing the barest of protection to his bared chest from the coolness that leached in from the wintery chill outside. At first, his gaze rested on the lights, on the hum and bustle of the people below him as they worked through the midnight hours, and after a time it moved on to the equally innocent if somewhat pointless task of trying to glimpse the stars through the ever present cloud of half-light that cloaked every major city, but eventually it turned instead to his reflection.

He met his own gaze, the chill darkness of his eyes cast back with what his conscience deemed disappointment before letting it move on, following the pale curve of his shoulders until they gave way to the inky reflection of his eternal shame. Almost as though of their own volition, his wings flexed again, straining upwards as though in memory of motions they could never truly complete. Ragged, and uneven as they were, they could still only be called angelic, but then the Fallen were that as well.

The need was there, the desire that plucked at him when he felt the sky's call most keenly, and tonight he gave in. Twining his fingers together as he'd been taught, Logan's lips parted, the harsh, alien phonemes of the demon's tongue slipping out as soot black lashes dipped and his eyelids fluttered, near closing as he envisioned what he wanted. The change came gradually as he tapped the power, a shimmer of light, a pale and silvery radiance touched with the faintest tint of purple spreading even as it was reflected, and perhaps magnified back in his hungry gaze. The glamour swept along his wings, cloaking them in its veil as the clear, crisp smell of fog spread from him, cutting through the almost clinical, scent of his newly inhabited apartment. In its wake, his feathers shifted, rustling as they multiplied, his wings made whole by the magic.

He stood there for long minutes, gaze roving again, from wingtip to streetlamp, from pinion to constellation as a sweat broke out over his skin, a shiver passing through him as he strained to hold the illusion. He felt it when the moment came, that one aching second that heralded the end, bringing with it the final little degradation that unbalanced the whole. As his spell began to slip, he turned away, the tip of one perfect wing catching the glass, where it shattered into a handful of silvery sparks. Folding them back against him, the ragged angel brought one arm up across himself, rubbing at his shoulder as the lights of the city burnt on behind him, and then headed for bed. He had a long day ahead.